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Produced by Jim Tinsley

THE LITTLE WARRIOR

CHAPTER ONE

1.

Freddie Rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. Through a gleaming
eye-glass he inspected the revolting object which Parker, his
faithful man, had placed on a plate before him.

"Parker!" His voice had a ring of pain.

"Sir?"

"What's this?"

"Poached egg, sir."

Freddie averted his eyes with a silent shudder.

"It looks just like an old aunt of mine," he said. "Remove it!"

He got up, and, wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, took
up a stand in front of the fireplace. From this position he surveyed
the room, his shoulders against the mantelpiece, his calves pressing
the club-fender. It was a cheerful oasis in a chill and foggy world,
a typical London bachelor's breakfast-room. The walls were a restful
gray, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement in white
and silver.

"Eggs, Parker," said Freddie solemnly, "are the acid test!"

"Yes, sir?"

"If, on the morning after, you can tackle a poached egg, you are all
right. If not, not. And don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

"No, sir."

Freddie pressed the palm of his hand to his brow, and sighed.

"It would seem, then, that I must have revelled a trifle
whole-heartedly last night. I was possibly a little blotto. Not
whiffled, perhaps, but indisputably blotto. Did I make much noise
coming in?"

"No, sir. You were very quiet."

"Ah! A dashed bad sign!"

Freddie moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"The cream-jug is to your right, sir," said the helpful Parker.

"Let it remain there. Cafe noir for me this morning. As noir as it
can jolly well stick!" Freddie retired to the fireplace and sipped
delicately. "As far as I can remember, it was Ronny Devereux'
birthday or something . . ."

"Mr Martyn's, I think you said, sir."

"That's right. Algy Martyn's birthday, and Ronny and I were the
guests. It all comes back to me. I wanted Derek to roll along and
join the festivities--he's never met Ronny--but he gave it a miss.
Quite right! A chap in his position has responsibilities. Member of
Parliament and all that. Besides," said Freddie earnestly, driving
home the point with a wave of his spoon, "he's engaged to be married.
You must remember that, Parker!"

"I will endeavor to, sir."

"Sometimes," said Freddie dreamily, "I wish I were engaged to be
married. Sometimes I wish I had some sweet girl to watch over me and
. . . No, I don't, by Jove! It would give me the utter pip! Is Sir
Derek up yet, Parker?"

"Getting up, sir."

"See that everything is all right, will you? I mean as regards the
foodstuffs and what not. I want him to make a good breakfast. He's
got to meet his mother this morning at Charing Cross. She's legging
it back from the Riviera."

"Indeed, sir?"

Freddie shook his head.

"You wouldn't speak in that light, careless tone if you knew her!
Well, you'll see her tonight. She's coming here to dinner."

"Yes, sir."

"Miss Mariner will be here, too. A foursome. Tell Mrs Parker to pull
up her socks and give us something pretty ripe. Soup, fish, all that
sort of thing. _She_ knows. And let's have a stoup of malvoisie from
the oldest bin. This is a special occasion!"

"Her ladyship will be meeting Miss Mariner for the first time, sir?"

"You've put your finger on it! Absolutely the first time on this or
any stage! We must all rally round and make the thing a success."

"I am sure Mrs Parker will strain every nerve, sir." Parker moved to
the door, carrying the rejected egg, and stepped aside to allow a
tall, well-built man of about thirty to enter. "Good morning, Sir
Derek."

"Morning, Parker."

Parker slid softly from the room. Derek Underhill sat down at the
table. He was a strikingly handsome man, with a strong, forceful
face, dark, lean and cleanly shaven. He was one of those men whom a
stranger would instinctively pick out of a crowd as worthy of note.
His only defect was that his heavy eyebrows gave him at times an
expression which was a little forbidding. Women, however, had never
been repelled by it. He was very popular with women, not quite so
popular with men--always excepting Freddie Rooke, who worshipped him.
They had been at school together, though Freddie was the younger by
several years.

"Finished, Freddie?" asked Derek.

Freddie smiled wanly,

"We are not breakfasting this morning," he replied. "The spirit was
willing, but the jolly old flesh would have none of it. To be
perfectly frank, the Last of the Rookes has a bit of a head."

"Ass!" said Derek.

"A bit of sympathy," said Freddie, pained, "would not be out of
place. We are far from well. Some person unknown has put a
threshing-machine inside the old bean and substituted a piece of
brown paper for our tongue. Things look dark and yellow and wobbly!"

"You shouldn't have overdone it last night."

"It was Algy Martyn's birthday," pleaded Freddie.

"If I were an ass like Algy Martyn," said Derek, "I wouldn't go about
advertising the fact that I'd been born. I'd hush it up!"

He helped himself to a plentiful portion of kedgeree, Freddie
watching him with repulsion mingled with envy. When he began to eat,
the spectacle became too poignant for the sufferer, and he wandered
to the window.

"What a beast of a day!"

It was an appalling day. January, that grim month, was treating
London with its usual severity. Early in the morning a bank of fog
had rolled up off the river, and was deepening from pearly white to a
lurid brown. It pressed on the window-pane like a blanket, leaving
dark, damp rivulets on the glass.

"Awful!" said Derek.

"Your mater's train will be late."

"Yes. Damned nuisance. It's bad enough meeting trains in any case,
without having to hang about a draughty station for an hour."

"And it's sure, I should imagine," went on Freddie, pursuing his
train of thought, "to make the dear old thing pretty tolerably ratty,
if she has one of those slow journeys." He pottered back to the
fireplace, and rubbed his shoulders reflectively against the
mantelpiece. "I take it that you wrote to her about Jill?"

"Of course. That's why she's coming over, I suppose. By the way, you
got those seats for that theatre tonight?"

"Yes. Three together and one somewhere on the outskirts. If it's all
the same to you, old thing, I'll have the one on the outskirts."

Derek, who had finished his kedgeree and was now making himself a
blot on Freddie's horizon with toast and marmalade, laughed.

"What a rabbit you are, Freddie! Why on earth are you so afraid of
mother?"

Freddie looked at him as a timid young squire might have gazed upon
St. George when the latter set out to do battle with the dragon. He
was of the amiable type which makes heroes of its friends. In the old
days when he had fagged for him at Winchester he had thought Derek
the most wonderful person in the world, and this view he still
retained. Indeed, subsequent events had strengthened it. Derek had
done the most amazing things since leaving school. He had had a
brilliant career at Oxford, and now, in the House of Commons, was
already looked upon by the leaders of his party as one to be watched
and encouraged. He played polo superlatively well, and was a fine
shot. But of all his gifts and qualities the one that extorted
Freddie's admiration in its intensest form was his lion-like courage
as exemplified by his behavior in the present crisis. There he sat,
placidly eating toast and marmalade, while the boat-train containing
Lady Underhill already sped on its way from Dover to London. It was
like Drake playing bowls with the Spanish Armada in sight.

"I wish I had your nerve!" he said, awed. "What I should be feeling,
if I were in your place and had to meet your mater after telling her
that I was engaged to marry a girl she had never seen, I don't know.
I'd rather face a wounded tiger!"

"Idiot!" said Derek placidly.

"Not," pursued Freddie, "that I mean to say anything in the least
derogatory and so forth to your jolly old mater, if you understand
me, but the fact remains she scares me pallid! Always has, ever since
the first time I went to stay at your place when I was a kid. I can
still remember catching her eye the morning I happened by pure chance
to bung an apple through her bedroom window, meaning to let a cat on
the sill below have it in the short ribs. She was at least thirty
feet away, but, by Jove, it stopped me like a bullet!"

"Push the bell, old man, will you? I want some more toast."

Freddie did as he was requested with growing admiration.

"The condemned man made an excellent breakfast," he murmured. "More
toast, Parker," he added, as that admirable servitor opened the door.
"Gallant! That's what I call it. Gallant!"

Derek tilted his chair back.

"Mother is sure to like Jill when she sees her," he said.

"_When_ she sees her! Ah! But the trouble is, young feller-me-lad,
that she _hasn't_ seen her! That's the weak spot in your case, old
companion! A month ago she didn't know of Jill's existence. Now, you
know and I know that Jill is one of the best and brightest. As far as
we are concerned, everything in the good old garden is lovely. Why,
dash it, Jill and I were children together. Sported side by side on
the green, and what not. I remember Jill, when she was twelve,
turning the garden-hose on me and knocking about seventy-five per
cent off the market value of my best Sunday suit. That sort of thing
forms a bond, you know, and I've always felt that she was a corker.
But your mater's got to discover it for herself. It's a dashed pity,
by Jove, that Jill hasn't a father or a mother or something of that
species to rally round just now. They would form a gang. There's
nothing like a gang! But she's only got that old uncle of hers. A
rummy bird! Met him?"

"Several times. I like him."

"Oh, he's a genial old buck all right. A very bonhomous lad. But you
hear some pretty queer stories about him if you get among people who
knew him in the old days. Even now I'm not so dashed sure I should
care to play cards with him. Young Threepwood was telling me only the
other day that the old boy took thirty quid off him at picquet as
clean as a whistle. And Jimmy Monroe, who's on the Stock Exchange,
says he's frightfully busy these times buying margins or whatever it
is chappies do down in the City. Margins. That's the word. Jimmy made
me buy some myself on a thing called Amalgamated Dyes. I don't
understand the procedure exactly, but Jimmy says it's a sound egg and
will do me a bit of good. What was I talking about? Oh, yes, old
Selby. There's no doubt he's quite a sportsman. But till you've got
Jill well established, you know, I shouldn't enlarge on him too much
with the mater."

"On the contrary," said Derek. "I shall mention him at the first
opportunity. He knew my father out in India."

"Did he, by Jove! Oh, well, that makes a difference."

Parker entered with the toast, and Derek resumed his breakfast.

"It may be a little bit awkward," he said, "at first, meeting mother.
But everything will be all right after five minutes."

"Absolutely! But, oh, boy! that first five minutes!" Freddie gazed
portentously through his eye-glass. Then he seemed to be undergoing
some internal struggle, for he gulped once or twice. "That first five
minutes!" he said, and paused again. A moment's silent
self-communion, and he went on with a rush. "I say, listen. Shall I
come along, too?"

"Come along?"

"To the station. With you."

"What on earth for?"

"To see you through the opening stages. Break the ice and all that
sort of thing. Nothing like collecting a gang, you know. Moments when
a feller needs a friend and so forth. Say the word, and I'll buzz
along and lend my moral support."

Derek's heavy eyebrows closed together in an offended frown, and
seemed to darken his whole face. This unsolicited offer of assistance
hurt his dignity. He showed a touch of the petulance which came now
and then when he was annoyed, to suggest that he might not possess so
strong a character as his exterior indicated.

"It's very kind of you," he began stiffly.

Freddie nodded. He was acutely conscious of this himself.

"Some fellows," he observed, "would say 'Not at all!' I suppose. But
not the Last of the Rookes! For, honestly, old man, between
ourselves, I don't mind admitting that this _is_ the bravest deed of
the year, and I'm dashed if I would do it for anyone else."

"It's very good of you, Freddie . . ."

"That's all right. I'm a Boy Scout, and this is my act of kindness
for today."

Derek got up from the table.

"Of course you mustn't come," he said. "We can't form a sort of
debating society to discuss Jill on the platform at Charing Cross."

"Oh, I would just hang around in the offing, shoving in an occasional
tactful word."

"Nonsense!"

"The wheeze would simply be to . . ."

"It's impossible."

"Oh, very well," said Freddie, damped. "Just as you say, of course.
But there's nothing like a gang, old man, nothing like a gang!"

2.

Derek Underhill threw down the stump of his cigar, and grunted
irritably. Inside Charing Cross Station business was proceeding as
usual. Porters wheeling baggage-trucks moved to and fro like
Juggernauts. Belated trains clanked in, glad to get home, while
others, less fortunate, crept reluctantly out through the blackness
and disappeared into an inferno of detonating fog-signals. For
outside the fog still held. The air was cold and raw and tasted
coppery. In the street traffic moved at a funeral pace, to the
accompaniment of hoarse cries and occasional crashes. Once the sun
had worked its way through the murk and had hung in the sky like a
great red orange, but now all was darkness and discomfort again,
blended with that odd suggestion of mystery and romance which is a
London fog's only redeeming quality.

It seemed to Derek that he had been patrolling the platform for a
life-time, but he resumed his sentinel duty. The fact that the
boat-train, being already forty-five minutes overdue, might arrive at
any moment made it imperative that he remain where he was instead of
sitting, as he would much have preferred to sit, in one of the
waiting-rooms. It would be a disaster if his mother should get out of
the train and not find him there to meet her. That was just the sort
of thing which would infuriate her; and her mood, after a Channel
crossing and a dreary journey by rail, would be sufficiently
dangerous as it was.

The fog and the waiting had had their effect upon Derek. The resolute
front he had exhibited to Freddie at the breakfast-table had melted
since his arrival at the station, and he was feeling nervous at the
prospect of the meeting that lay before him. Calm as he had appeared
to the eye of Freddie and bravely as he had spoken, Derek, in the
recesses of his heart, was afraid of his mother. There are men--and
Derek Underhill was one of them--who never wholly emerge from the
nursery. They may put away childish things and rise in the world to
affluence and success, but the hand that rocked their cradle still
rules their lives. As a boy, Derek had always been firmly controlled
by his mother, and the sway of her aggressive personality had endured
through manhood. Lady Underhill was a born ruler, dominating most of
the people with whom life brought her in contact. Distant cousins
quaked at her name, while among the male portion of her nearer
relatives she was generally alluded to as The Family Curse.

Now that his meeting with her might occur at any moment, Derek shrank
from it. It was not likely to be a pleasant one. The mere fact that
Lady Underhill was coming to London at all made that improbable. When
a man writes to inform his mother, who is wintering on the Riviera,
that he has become engaged to be married, the natural course for her
to pursue, if she approves of the step, is to wire her
congratulations and good wishes. When for these she substitutes a
curt announcement that she is returning immediately, a certain lack
of complaisance seems to be indicated.

Would his mother approve of Jill? That was the question which he had
been asking himself over and over again as he paced the platform in
the disheartening fog. Nothing had been said, nothing had even been
hinted, but he was perfectly aware that his marriage was a matter
regarding which Lady Underhill had always assumed that she was to be
consulted, even if she did not, as he suspected, claim the right to
dictate. And he had become engaged quite suddenly, without a word to
her until it was all over and settled.

That, as Freddie had pointed out, was the confoundedly awkward part
of it. His engagement had been so sudden. Jill had swept into his
life like a comet. His mother knew nothing of her. A month ago he had
known nothing of her himself. It would, he perceived, as far as the
benevolent approval of Lady Underhill was concerned, have been an
altogether different matter had his choice fallen upon one of those
damsels whose characters, personality, and ancestry she knew.
Daughters of solid and useful men; sisters of rising young
politicians like himself; nieces of Burke's peerage; he could have
introduced without embarrassment one of these in the role of
bride-elect. But Jill . . . Oh, well, when once his mother had met
Jill, everything was sure to be all right. Nobody could resist Jill.
It would be like resisting the sunshine.

Somewhat comforted by this reflection, Derek turned to begin one more
walk along the platform, and stopped in mid-stride, raging. Beaming
over the collar of a plaid greatcoat, all helpfulness and devotion,
Freddie Rooke was advancing towards him, the friend that sticketh
closer than a brother. Like some loving dog, who, ordered home,
sneaks softly on through alleys and by-ways, peeping round corners
and crouching behind lamp-posts, the faithful Freddie had followed
him after all. And with him, to add the last touch to Derek's
discomfiture, were those two inseparable allies of his, Ronny
Devereux and Algy Martyn.

"Well, old thing," said Freddie, patting Derek encouragingly on the
shoulder, "here we are after all! I know you told me not to roil
round and so forth, but I knew you didn't mean it. I thought it over
after you had left, and decided it would be a rotten trick not to
cluster about you in your hour of need. I hope you don't mind Ronny
and Algy breezing along, too. The fact is, I was in the deuce of a
funk--your jolly old mater always rather paralyzes my nerve-centers,
you know--so I roped them in. Met 'em in Piccadilly, groping about
for the club, and conscripted 'em both, they very decently
consenting. We all toddled off and had a pick-me-up at that chemist
chappie's at the top of the Hay-market, and now we're feeling full of
beans and buck, ready for anything. I've explained the whole thing to
them, and they're with you to the death! Collect a gang, dear boy,
collect a gang! That's the motto. There's nothing like it!"

"Nothing!" said Ronny.

"Absolutely nothing!" said Algy.

"We'll just see you through the opening stages," said Freddie, "and
then leg it. We'll keep the conversation general, you know."

"Stop it getting into painful channels," said Ronny.

"Steer it clear," said Algy, "of the touchy topic."

"That's the wheeze," said Freddie. "We'll . . . Oh, golly! There's
the train coming in now!" His voice quavered, for not even the
comforting presence of his two allies could altogether sustain him in
this ordeal. But he pulled himself together with a manful effort.
"Stick it, old beans!" he said doughtily. "Now is the time for all
good men to come to the aid of the party!"

"We're here!" said Ronny Devereux.

"On the spot!" said Algy Martyn.

3.

The boat-train slid into the station. Bells rang, engines blew off
steam, porters shouted, baggage-trucks rattled over the platform. The
train began to give up its contents, now in ones and twos, now in a
steady stream. Most of the travellers seemed limp and exhausted, and
were pale with the pallor that comes of a choppy Channel crossing.
Almost the only exception to the general condition of collapse was
the eagle-faced lady in the brown ulster, who had taken up her stand
in the middle of the platform and was haranguing a subdued little
maid in a voice that cut the gloomy air like a steel knife. Like the
other travellers, she was pale, but she bore up resolutely. No one
could have told from Lady Underhill's demeanor that the solid
platform seemed to heave beneath her feet like a deck.

"Have you got a porter, Ferris? Where is he, then? Ah! Have you got
all the bags? My jewel-case? The suit-case? The small brown bag? The
rugs? Where are the rugs?

"Yes, I can see them, my good girl. There is no need to brandish them
in my face. Keep the jewel-case and give the rest of the things to
the porter, and take him to look after the trunks. You remember which
they are? The steamer trunk, the other trunk, the black box . . .
Very well. Then make haste. And, when you've got them all together,
tell the porter to find you a four-wheeler. The small things will go
inside. Drive to the Savoy and ask for my suite. If they make any
difficulty, tell them that I engaged the rooms yesterday by telegraph
from Mentone. Do you understand?"

"Yes, m'lady."

"Then go along. Oh, and give the porter sixpence. Sixpence is ample."

"Yes, m'lady."

The little maid, grasping the jewel-case, trotted off beside the now
pessimistic porter, who had started on this job under the impression
that there was at least a bob's-worth in it. The remark about the
sixpence had jarred the porter's faith in his species.

Derek approached, acutely conscious of Freddie, Ronny, and Algy, who
were skirmishing about his flank. He had enough to worry him without
them. He had listened with growing apprehension to the catalogue of
his mother's possessions. Plainly this was no flying visit. You do
not pop over to London for a day or two with a steamer trunk, another
trunk, a black box, a suit-case, and a small brown bag. Lady
Underhill had evidently come prepared to stay; and the fact seemed to
presage trouble.

"Well, mother! So there you are at last!"

"Well, Derek!"

Derek kissed his mother. Freddie, Ronny, and Algy shuffled closer,
like leopards. Freddie, with the expression of one who leads a
forlorn hope, moved his Adam's apple briskly up and down several
times, and spoke.

"How do you do, Lady Underhill?"

"How do you do, Mr Rooke?"

Lady Underhill bowed stiffly and without pleasure. She was not fond
of the Last of the Rookes. She supposed the Almighty had had some
wise purpose in creating Freddie, but it had always been inscrutable
to her.

"Like you," mumbled Freddie, "to meet my friends. Lady Underhill. Mr
Devereux."

"Charmed," said Ronny affably.

"Mr Martyn."

"Delighted," said Algy with old-world courtesy.

Lady Underhill regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice.

"How do you do?" she said. "Have you come to meet somebody?"

"I-er-we-er-why-er--" This woman always made Freddie feel as if he
were being disembowelled by some clumsy amateur. He wished that he
had defied the dictates of his better nature and remained in his snug
rooms at the Albany, allowing Derek to go through this business by
himself. "I-er-we-er-came to meet _you_, don't you know!"

"Indeed! That was very kind of you!"

"Oh, not at all."

"Thought we'd welcome you back to the old homestead," said Ronny,
beaming.

"What could be sweeter?" said Algy. He produced a cigar-case, and
extracted a formidable torpedo-shaped Havana. He was feeling
delightfully at his ease, and couldn't understand why Freddie had
made such a fuss about meeting this nice old lady. "Don't mind if I
smoke, do you? Air's a bit raw today. Gets into the lungs."

Derek chafed impotently. These unsought allies were making a
difficult situation a thousand times worse. A more acute observer
than young Mr Martyn, he noted the tight lines about his mother's
mouth and knew them for the danger-signal they were. Endeavoring to
distract her with light conversation, he selected a subject which was
a little unfortunate.

"What sort of crossing did you have, mother?"

Lady Underhill winced. A current of air had sent the perfume of
Algy's cigar playing about her nostrils. She closed her eyes, and her
face turned a shade paler. Freddie, observing this, felt quite sorry
for the poor old thing. She was a pest and a pot of poison, of
course, but all the same, he reflected charitably, it was a shame
that she should look so green about the gills. He came to the
conclusion that she must be hungry. The thing to do was to take her
mind off it till she could be conducted to a restaurant and dumped
down in front of a bowl of soup.

"Bit choppy, I suppose, what?" he bellowed, in a voice that ran up
and down Lady Underhill's nervous system like an electric needle. "I
was afraid you were going to have a pretty rough time of it when I
read the forecast in the paper. The good old boat wobbled a bit, eh?"

Lady Underhill uttered a faint moan. Freddie noticed that she was
looking deucedly chippy, even chippier than a moment ago.

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